


The Causarius and the Scholar

by DulcimerGecko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Ancient Rome, Gen, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:33:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3775657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DulcimerGecko/pseuds/DulcimerGecko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Saxon spear or Celtic short sword?” </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Causarius and the Scholar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jinglebell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinglebell/gifts).



> This one's for the super-sweet [Jinglebell](http://jinglebellfic.tumblr.com/), with many thanks. I had a horrid week recently, and asked her for a writing prompt to cheer myself up. She responded with "AWWW sweet sea urchin! ~huggles~ Writing for other people cheers you up? WELL I AM HAPPY TO OBLIGE: I am thirsty for more gladiator/Ancient Rome AU Johnlock stuff!"
> 
> And then this happened.

~*~

_Unum, duo, tres…_ John attempted to control the anger surging through his mind like thick lava. It was sullen rage, pure and simple. Rage at his situation, his injuries, the loss of his identity. The loss of his calm center was frighting for a man who'd always prided himself on his self-discipline. After weeks and then months of forced inaction while he healed though, his temper had finally become so foul he'd finally been forced to seek help. 

_Quattuor, quinque, sex… septem… octo… novem… decem…_ It was difficult, John found, to keep his breathing slow and even as he mentally chanted his way through the numerical litany the way the temple priestess had advised. It was a half-hearted appeal, at best, to Tranquillitas for her mercy. John had little use for the gods or faith beyond the gasping, desperate 'please let me live' that he'd choked out during his last campaign. Despite his lack of faith, he'd found that the litany did help keep him from lashing out when somebody gave him a mocking look at his limp, or worse yet, one of pity. Still counting silently, John let his eyes drift shut to better concentrate on the peaceful surroundings of the Roman baths.

Blindness, albeit however temporary, should have felt threatening for a man of action, but John found himself oddly soothed by the absence of sight. With his eyes closed, his other senses felt enhanced. Sharper. It was a reassuring reminder of the survival skills he still possessed, despite the grievous injuries to his shoulder and leg. The ability to smell a hiding enemy warrior or hear the high-pitched whine of an incoming projectile on a moon-dark night had saved his life more than a few times in his long career. The fact that he was home now in Rome didn't make those hard-earned skills less valuable. 

_Not that he'd likely have a chance to use them again._ John mused bitterly to himself. Few businesses or merchants were interested in hiring a guard with a bad shoulder and a limp. He'd been searching constantly in the months since he'd returned, even lowering himself enough to inquire about guarding the door at some of the taverns his sister frequented, but to no avail. Perhaps he really was as useless as the army considered him to be. 

_Enough._

With a sharp jerk of his head, John wrenched his thoughts away from the bitter turn they'd taken. Self-pity and bitterness wouldn't put bread in his belly. He was discharged, yes. Partially crippled, yes. By the grace of the gods though—or more likely yet, sheer blind luck—he'd kept his left arm and injured leg both. Unlike many other medically discharged soldiers, he also still had the use of both hands and both eyes. Better yet, John could also read and had the healing skills he'd learned on the battlefield. Those blessings were things that would serve him in good stead in this new life, whatever it might turn out to be. He was desperately bored, yes, but he didn't have to worry about starving on the streets. His small pension at least would see to that. 

Making a conscious effort to relax and enjoy the still-novel luxury of being clean, John sank deeper into the hot water of the caldarium's main bathing pool, allowing it to sooth his many aches. The wet linen of his subligaculum billowed at the movement and John absently smoothed it back into place as he shifted on the stone bench.

Eyes still closed, John took another deep breath, cataloging the different scents he could detect in the warm, humid air of the baths. Burning frankincense and myrrh from a nearby temple mingled with the tang of sawdust and the odours of cooking food and smoke. It was a pleasant combination and about as far away as possible from the scents of blood and death and shit and infection that were entwined inextricably with his memories of the last few years.

Keeping his eyes shut, John expanded his focus to concentrate on the sounds made by the bath’s other visitors. He could hear three old men grumbling in the tempidarium to his left. John smiled at their raspy, low-voiced complaints about the price of bread and the poor manners of the day’s youths. Such things were petty issues compared to some of the things he'd heard soldiers grumble about on marches. The echo of debating voices came from the frigidarium to his right, while the courtyard outside rang with the sound of laughter from a group of youths playing ball. The caldarium where John himself sat was sitting was silent, save for the gentle lapping of the water and the occasional soft susurrus of wet fabric on skin as somebody walked through on their way to either the frigidarium or the tempidarium. Faintly, in another part of the complex there came the sudden clang of metal striking stone. John flinched before he identified it as the sound of a strigil being dropped by clumsy bather. 

_Benign sounds,_ John told himself firmly, forcing his jaw to unclench. _Nothing to be concerned about._

John exhaled again, taking comfort in the fact that he was alone in the water, and confident in his ability to detect the approach of another. The fact that the pool had been empty when normally half a dozen men could be found lounging in its depths had been a surprise, but it had been a welcome one all the same.

With another sigh John shifted slightly, raising himself out of the water far enough so that he could easily rest his head on carved pillow bordering the edge of the heated bathing pool. The movement exposed his left shoulder and John hissed in pain at the conflicting signals the change in pressure and temperature sent across the mass of twisted scar tissue. 

“Saxon spear or Celtic short sword?”

Caught completely off guard by the sudden voice directly in front of him, John exploded into motion with a shout. His efforts at relaxing were abruptly superseded by muscle memory being triggered by an unsensed threat. Lightning-quick, his right hand reached for the gladius sword he no longer wore at his side, while his left arm flashed over to protect his vulnerable belly. Simultaneously, John half-turned and threw himself sidewise in a bid to get out of arm's reach of a grappling or weapons attack, his right leg miraculously responding as it used to.

The waves caused by the sudden movement of John’s body churned and splashed in a noisy cacophony, effectively shattering the tranquil air of the tepidarium. A few of the larger waves surged outward, cresting over the marble ledges of the heated bathing pool before slowly subsiding into gentler ripples that chased each other across the water, a silent witness to the tableau developing in their midst.

Breathing hard and poised to either attack or defend, John blinked furiously to clear his vision of water droplets. His brows lowered and his jaw tightened, falling easily into the same foreboding expression that had served him well during his time as a Centurion. Eyes clear, he turned, prepared to turn his most menacing gaze on the unknown man that had somehow, against all of John’s training, skills and heightened senses, managed to slip into the bath undetected and approach him.

And promptly blinked in surprise.

Rather than a fellow grizzled veteran, or a knife-wielding thief, he found himself facing an absurdly beautiful youth. The young man was standing a half-dozen paces away, but it was close enough for John to see that the young man’s hands held no weapons. Much to John’s chagrin, the stranger looked neither chastened nor intimidated by John’s glare and his explosive response. Instead, he looked intrigued.

“Interesting,” the young man murmured in a smooth baritone that identified him as an adult, despite his lean, coltish appearance. Clasping his palms together, the stranger brought them up to his mouth and rested his index fingers against the plush Cupid’s bow of his lips as he studied John with bright, interested eyes.

“What’s interesting?” John growled, slowly relaxing his posture as he belatedly identified the young man as a fool, but not a threat. He shuffled back slowly to his seat, casting the youth another dark look. “You shouldn't startle people. You're liable to get punched in the face if you do, and a broken jaw is not a pleasant thing to spend months recovering from.”

Uncowed, the young man raised an eyebrow, giving John an intent look. “Hmmm, your concern is duly noted,” was all he said though. He took a few steps forward, moving with languid grace and turned to join John on the bench. Rather than sitting properly, the young man elected to recline back on his elbows, sprawling out on the underwater bench like some sort of male nymph, complete with the nudity. His dark, tousled curls and the moon-pale pallor of his lean, muscled limbs made him seem even more ethereal, and he gave John one slow, languid blink.

John swallowed hard. Lust—a part of him he'd thought long dead after the guts and screaming of the battlefield—stirred at the sight of the stranger's bare chest wreathed in steam and still faintly gleaming with the traces of oil that hadn't been quite scraped away. Flushing, John hastily crossed his legs to conceal his burgeoning erection, hoping that the movement seemed casual. “Why do you want to know about my scar?” John asked gruffly, seizing on the stranger's first words as a distraction to reverse the inappropriate thickening of his cock.

“Because I'm curious,” the young man replied, blinking slowly in the steam, the thick lashes of his oddly-shaped eyes doing little to obscure their brilliant aqua colour. “I'm a scholar,” the stranger continued, gaze flicking attentively over John’s features. “You're a Causarius, a medically discharged solider. You are clearly a skilled fighter if you took a wound like that and managed to keep fighting long enough to survive—not to mention that demonstration when I first spoke to you—but the scars you bear are unfamiliar to me.”

John froze, instincts on high alert at the man’s words. “Who are you?” he demanded, caution warring with the excitement and curiosity that something _interesting_ was finally happening to him. “And how did you know I'm a Causarius?”

“Obvious.” The young man waved an elegant hand dismissively. “Your reaction. An ordinary citizen would never have reacted so explosively to a simple question, but a surprised man, trained and used fighting for his life? Soldier. But not an ordinary solider, no. You were an intelligent and high-ranking one as well. Your skin and face both have tan lines from armor, as do your legs. A legionnaire Immunes is a possibility, since you're the right age, but you're also literate. You bear the calluses from writing on your left hand, which makes a higher rank, such as Centurion, far more likely. That you're a Causarius now is predictable. The type of injury you have suffered in your left shoulder severely limits your mobility. Likely one of the army's clinicuses decided such an injury would make it difficult, if not impossible, to carry a shield, throw a spear, or otherwise effectively defend yourself in ordinary combat. You were pensioned off against your will, which brings us back to my initial question: Saxon spear or Celtic short sword?”

John’s mouth opened and closed several times in amazement before he was finally able to say the first thing that sprung to mind. “That's fantastic!”

The young man looked taken aback. “You think so?”

John shook his head slowly. “You've never met me before, and yet you were able to see all that? That's brilliant.”

The young man visibly preened at John's enthusiastic praise. “That's...not what people normally say. It's refreshing to meet somebody intelligent enough to appreciate it, though.”

“Who are you?” John asked, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“The name is Sherlock Holmes," the man replied, touching a graceful hand to the center of his chest. "And you are?”

John blinked in surprise at the distinctly un-Roman praenomen and nomen-cognomen. Not a Roman citizen, then, like he'd assumed, despite the youth's dark hair and haughty air. “Johannes Watson Valerius," he replied, "or John, if you prefer. And to answer your question, it was a spear.”

“Johannes Watson Valerius…” Sherlock repeated, rolling the syllables of John’s name over his tongue and savoring them the way a man would a fine wine. "'Johaness'…from the Hebrew ‘Yahweh is gracious,' and 'Valerious' meaning 'to be strong.'"

"Errr…yes," John admitted, slightly tongue-tied at the evidence of learning tumbling forth from Sherlock's perfect lips. "Have you read a lot, then?" he asked, desperate for the other man to continue talking. 

"I would be a poor scholar if I didn't," Sherlock replied with bemusement. He tilted his head in curiosity at John's expression. "You disagree?" he asked, raising one dark eyebrow.

"A bit, yeah," John admitted, shifting to a slightly more comfortable position. "Reading isn't the only sign of intelligence," he continued. "I've met storytellers that could recite sagas that would last a day and a night in the telling and they learned them all by memory. Farmers who know how to read the earth and seasons...Commanders who know how to read men. And then there's the ability to read terrain and clouds, the civilians in a place your army's occupying, the ability to pick up languages quickly...there's a lot more to knowledge than just letters on a tablet. One has to know people."

“Interesting…” Sherlock’s voice trailed off, obviously lost in thought. He was silent for several minutes before his sharp gaze refocused on John's. "I imagine as a soldier you consider yourself knowledgeable with different people and the situations you just mentioned are ones you've personally experienced?" 

"I am, yes," John admitted slowly. "Why do you ask?"

"Do you have a wife?" Sherlock inquired, ignoring John's question. 

"Me? No." John coughed slightly. "Not really my area."

"Any other family or obligations to keep you in Rome?" 

"No."

"What do you miss most about the military?" Sherlocked asked. "The adventure or the travel?"

"I miss feeling useful," John answered honestly. "Sherlock, what is this all about?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. He deliberately swept his gaze down John's torso, and then back up, ending on John's face. "I'm going to be staying in Rome for several more months and I find myself in need of a housemate. After I finish my research at the library of a fellow scholar named Marius Silvanus-" 

"Marius Silvanus is still in Rome?" John interrupted, surprised at the mention of a name he hadn't thought about in years.

"Yes...you know him?

"A long time ago," John answered honestly. "I traveled with him before I joined the army. Gods, he must be ancient by now." 

"He is, which is why he's letting me have free reign of his library. He doesn't want his body of research to be forgotten."

"What, exactly, are you researching?" John inquired with a curious tilt of his head.

"Dead bodies," Sherlock replied, an almost unholy light gleaming in his eyes. "After I finish my research at Marius's, I will be traveling to Egypt to speak with the embalmers there. I'm working on a series of codices that will compile anatomical knowledge from various parts of the world. I could use a literate assistant, preferably one with fighting skills since traveling by oneself is dangerous. Interested?

John blinked, taken aback by the unexpected offer. On the one hand, it was sheer madness to commit to living and traveling with a man he'd just met, even a gorgeous one. The prudent side of him pointed out that doing so could lead to his death. He was taking it on pure faith that Sherlock was the scholar he claimed to be, and not murderer or a thief seeking to rob him of his few coins in a dank alley somewhere, or worse yet, a madman. On the other hand, John considered himself a good judge of character. More importantly, he had never been one for resisting the lure of adventure. Sherlock' intelligence and offer of companionship called to him with an urge that was impossible to resist. Extending his right hand, John smiled answered the only way he could: "Gods yes!"

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! I'm on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dulcimergecko) and [livejournal](http://dulcimer-gecko.livejournal.com/) if you want to stop by and say 'hello'. I could also use the assistance of a nit-picky beta(s) to tutor me in formatting rules and/or offer writing feedback on rough drafts. If you're interested, please PM message me, and thanks for reading!


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